Pax Romana
by the original coda
Summary: The other knights watched as Tristan began to drag the woman he called Isolde out of the tavern. It was unlike him to make an outburst. Was he bringing her to her home, to her family, or perhaps, to his bed?
1. Prologue

**Pax Romana – [Prologue]**  
  
_Disclaimer: I don't own any of it save what I created myself. Notes: All right. I've had this nagging in the back of my mind willing me to write a King Arthur story, but I lacked the inspiration for a while. However, I think I may have some inspiration. So: I would consider this story a very different spin on the old Tristan and Isolde legend, combining some elements and leaving others. I've tried to make the actual history legitimate for the sake of realism. I know this is a short, rather crappy start, but I don't want to sound as if I'm rushing to give it all away.  
_  
---------------------  
  
The place from where I want to start telling my story is when Tristan grabbed hold of my arm and pulled me out of the tavern alongside him. It was not a friendly or kindly gesture, violently and quietly and calmly done just as he does everything else, though there was a glance of intimacy in the way his fingers curled and pressed into the skin of my forearm. There was history between he and I that bred this kind of intimacy, perhaps not of a lovers' kind, but of a kind that resulted from desperation. I suppose the desperation was on my part. But that is all in the past now.  
  
The other knights merely watched us, their sense of honour apparently forgotten in face of their own consternation, as Tristan dragged me out of the tavern. How unlike him to draw attention to himself, they might've thought; he is a man whose watchful position as scout continues past the line of work and into his life. He is a man whose work – killing and scouting – is his life, and so he cannot abandon the role. Perhaps they were wondering where he was bringing me: to my home, to my family, or perhaps to his bed? _I_ had watched _him_ discreetly these three months that I had been in Britain, knew that there was the occasional woman who left with him afterhours – again the difference between him and the other knights being that he did not sing later on about it.  
  
"What is it? Where are we going?" I asked my questions in hissed, quiet tones that went purposefully unnoticed by all the others around us, but I was sure that somehow they made their way under the fringes of his hair. His fingers tightened, but he did not answer. "Tristan! Answer me!"  
  
We passed the guards and entered the fortress; his fingers like iron around my arm as the guards on duty gave a knowing look in the general direction of his eyes. He didn't deny or correct their looks, which suggested that I was some sort of instrument for his pleasure, and when we rounded a corner I finally sunk my feet into the stone and refused to move. Of course he could have moved me with a single exertion of force. But I like to think I made my point.  
  
His eyes were dark and dangerous under his hair and braids as he stopped and turned to me. I took an instinctive step back – his fingers released me now that we were alone – and he did not come any closer; the mere aura of danger that came from him enough to keep me still. Finally, he spoke softly, but it was not to my liking, "Do not forget that I have no bonds to you, _Isolde_."  
  
A silence.  
  
He had a calm, knowing and dignified stance to him. His posture was noticeably loose – a sign that he thought me no threat – but there were daggers in his tone.  
  
Eventually, the expression in his eyes changed from intimidating to watchful, like a hawk, and he began to ask his questions.  
  
"Why have you come to Britain? I'm surprised you're not dead and buried along with your house."  
  
I would not answer him, for if he had no bonds to me any longer, then that also signified that I no longer had any bonds to him. He didn't appear to care much for my silence.  
  
"Did you believe that if I laid eyes on you, here, that I would not tell anyone?"  
  
After a few moments, I answered him: "What does it matter – I tasted your betrayal fifteen years ago, traitor."  
  
He appeared to be tired of the banter – Tristan was never one for words, as the vaguely familiar long sword strapped to him attested. He gripped me arm again and pulled me along the hallways this way and that, passing carefully stationed guards who apparently thought nothing of a knight dragging a woman though the fortress. We reached a set of crudely hewn wooden doors, and with a nod to the attending guards, they were opened. He pushed me inside the room first, to be greeted with the sight of Arthur Castus and his queen sitting at their table and taking supper. Neither appeared surprised with Tristan's sudden appearance.  
  
He shoved me further forward, and then directed his words to the king:  
  
"Arthur, may I present to you the daughter of the deposed Perseus of Macedonia and Greece, last of the Antigonid dynasty, and..." he spat out the next word, "fugitive of the Roman Empire."  
  
He paused and stilled, as if submerged in a quiet sense of nostalgia, and added as an afterthought, "She was my ward fifteen years ago in smuggling her out of Macedonia and into Sparta."  
  
-------------------  
  
Well? 


	2. I

**Pax Romana – 1**

_Disclaimer: I do not own any of it._

_Notes: Sorry I only left the crappy first chapter for such a long time – I went on vacation away from computers for two weeks. But anyway, I'm going to give the hinted history of Tristan and Isolde in my story before launching into the Britain oriented fodder. Also – in response to the questions about the history – technically, the differences in years between Britain's release from Rome and when Rome conquered Macedonia and Greece is several hundred years, not fifteen years, but I'm trying to justify it to myself as "using creative license for my purposes". However, Greece, at the time of occupation, was under mostly Macedonian control (ie: Perseus, last of the Antigonid line), the Greek empire having long since fallen._

-----------------------

Mine had been a life of luxury, of comforts and blissful ignorance, of surrounding weapons for the men and soft hands for the women. It had been a life covered in lavish red drapes and burnished finely with gold leaf, built of fine wood from the heartland and scented with exotic perfumes from the Asia Minor. I had never known anything other than the lap of luxury until the Roman Empire challenged our doors.

Last of the Antigonid dynasty, we liked to whisper to one another. My father was Perseus, King of Macedonia and therefore of most of the ancient states of Greece as well. Greece was the dusky land of my mother, hidden like a fine gem covered in layers of sand. Even as a child upon my voyages to Greece and into learning and education, I thought Greece was like a mirror to peel back the layers with and to find your true self. My father, though, was no great lover of Greece (save for the wife it had given him), and so we lived our life of soft comforts in Macedonia, in a palace made for kings and conquerors.

Macedonia was great in its splendour, and widely left alone by invaders – perhaps protected by its history of Philip and Alexander the Great, who were ancestors of my house. The Greatness, I have come to realize, must have diluted over time and history, as my father and his fathers before him were not fantastical soldiers of old lore, and they were even worse military tacticians. Our country had gained a number of enemies of differing nationalities even before the Romans came to battle us. The army was scattered and not nearly as well constructed as the Roman phalanx units and siege machines. Soldiers were aging and the military no longer held any of the glittering allure of promise it once held, or any of the imposing presence. Fighting, it would seem, had lost its glamour in Macedonia.

In the time that I have since lived my life away from Macedonia, I have realized other things about my past. Upon reflection, I can pick out the traitors to the Romans among our nobles and servants. I learned that Macedonia was not a gem of opulence, as I had thought as a child, that its economy had been falling even before it was conquered and annexed by Rome. The splendour was not all it had seen – the gold worn and chipped, the scarlet drapery faded and torn. I also learned that among other things, my father had no great love for me.

This was understandable.

I was his only child at the time, only a daughter, and it seemed as though I would be the only child he would ever have. Some of his advisors were pleased. A daughter insures that the Antigonid line carries on, for a woman's matriarchy to her child cannot be contested. But the dynasty was useless without a man to be its leader, and a leader I was not. And so I kept to the shadows, because my father did not bother with me. It caused me no great ill or sadness; I was never taken with hysterics or depression because of my father's distance. I was kept by many different people, and so came out with a scrambling, jumbled education. I knew some cooking and sewing and cleaning – from the kindly servants. I learned upper-class etiquette and developed an overly diplomatic mind of politics – from my father's advisors. I learned ancient military ritual that was of little to no use to anybody – from the aging generals who were further and further disregarded. I learned some fighting technique with weapons so outdated they were not seen outside of our country – from discharged soldiers. But my favourite subject was doubtlessly philosophy – which I learned and discussed through no coincidence in Greece.

Mere days before the disgraceful and badly strategized battle in which my father lost Macedonia to Rome occurred, I was sent away from home – for my own safety, but mostly for the protection of the dynasty. Even as a child, I found it bitter to swallow that many only saw me as a soon-to-be fertile womb, with the tattoo of my house on my forearm, to produce Antigonid offspring.

I had not known I was to leave until a few minutes before I was swept away from the palace. Among my escort – or shall we say, escape party – was the worldly and fifteen-year-old Tristan.

----------------------

When it began, I was only just risen from the pallet in my chambers. I sat before one of my prized possessions, a mirror larger than I was tall, and studied the ornate, long and slim wooden box that had been given to me by a servant that morning. "A gift," she had said as she had handed the box to me, "from your uncle, and a note." I had taken these items inside with me, confident that my note had not been read by any others because servants were not taught to read or write.

I dug my fingernails under the crude clasps on the box, and it opened smoothly to reveal a soft inner lining of green. Upon this silk lay five glittering weapons, like modified knives – examples of what I said regarding outdated weapons. How like my uncle, I had thought, for he was a high commander in my father's army and had spent his days on release teaching me the uses of this type of weapon. They were pronged things, like over-large forks, the three prongs sharpened to points. The middle blade extended beyond the outer two, and measured with the wooden handle, each weapon was about as long as my forearm and hand. My uncle liked to call them tridents, after the mighty one said to be possessed by Poseidon, but these five 'tridents' were only burnished with metal plate to look very fine; the points dull and the edges as well. Overall, they were rather garishly glittery with little to no actual use to be made of them.

Nevertheless, my etiquette had taught me to give thanks to my uncle for giving me such a gift, and so I tied my favourite blue dress with silver clasps at my shoulders and brushed my hair, and when presentable went to look for him, the box of weapons under my arm.

Looking back on this short moment in my life, there are times when I call this a time that saved my life, and there are despondent times when I believe that time when I was doomed to be a fugitive from a specific Roman for the better part of my life.

I walked down the halls slowly, hoping to happen upon my uncle, while giving good greeting to my fellows who also lived in the palace. But when I did find him, he was in deep conversation with a man whose features (dark, ruffled hair and prominent, unpretty bone structure, not to mention the scarlet cape blending with the shade of the curtains) were decidedly Roman. I had been taught almost from birth to be distrustful of the Empire – it was a widely held view to think that we were next on Rome's list of conquest. But before I could turn away to seek out somebody else, my uncle saw me.

"Isolde, my girl! Come here and let us see you."

The Roman man did not appear startled by my sudden entrance; he turned and looked at me with alert and watchful eyes. Under his scrutiny, I fidgeting uncharacteristically as I stepped forward and let my uncle take my hands in his, holding the box under my arm. "Good morning, uncle." And to the Roman, whose post I inwardly decided was below my own, "And to you, sir."

He only nodded, and I turned my attention back to my family member, who grinned at me. "I see you've received my gift. How do you like it? I thought you showed some promise with these when we last practiced."

"They're beautiful, my lord; thank you." I was mumbling into my collarbones, casting looks at my uncle's companion out of the periphery of my vision. The Roman's eyes were glinting dangerously, and he continued to study me closely. His gaze moved slowly, like water moving over my skin, down my body before coming to rest at the stark tattoo of the Antigonid dynasty upon my forearm. Then, he looked away to make a silent motion to his guard, who left immediately.

My uncle, meanwhile, was laughing at me. "Beautiful! My dear, weaponry is not meant to be pretty. So long as it does its job…" He smiled kindly at me, and then addressed the Roman. "Isn't that right, Darius?"

The man he called Darius gave a tight smile, but did not answer my uncle's question. Instead, he reached for the box. "What have you given…this Lady?" He had given an open invitation for introduction, and waited expectantly as I gave him the box.

"I am Isolde, daughter of Perseus, but you may call me 'princess'." My uncle howled with laughter, but the Roman only narrowed his eyes and answered some proper response.

He opened the box, and then let out a bark of laughter at its contents. "Why such ancient weaponry?" I took the box back. "Those can barely do any damage faced against the arms of today."

Sobering a bit, my uncle responded jovially, "Well, I can hardly give her a sword. She's thirteen years old!"

The Roman's guard came back into the room, followed by another. I became nervous.

"Perhaps I shall leave you to your business, my lords," I said. My uncle nodded agreeably and waved me out, but the Roman motioned again to his guards.

"No, no, stay! We enjoy your company." The Roman smiled at me, a vicious and self-satisfied smile. He paid my uncle no attention when he frowned and cleared his throat loudly. Behind him, his guards had stepped forward and bore the same stupid smirk. I felt an unfamiliar pounding in my chest, and clutched the box until my hands turned white, then turned away rather demurely.

"I am expected elsewhere, my lord. I beg your leave."

I had not taken even a step before the first Roman guard came forward and grabbed my shoulder, the armour over his forearm pressing into my skin, while the other drew his sword. I had gasped, and so had my uncle. It was Macedonian custom for none to touch the skin of any royal maiden, save for family. My uncle was standing.

"Your guards will not touch a member of the royal house, thank you!" There was a shrill treble to my uncle's voice that was entirely unfamiliar to me. The Roman released his hold on my shoulder, and then instead turned to him.

I mumbled, "Excuse me…" and I ran away from the group of men – but as I did, I saw the guards advance on my uncle, his face slowly becoming a deeper shade of purple. He let out a shout of rage as they tried to subdue him forcefully, and the Roman lord himself came after me.

His hand caught on my dress just as I reached the doors, and I panicked.

The box quickly unclasped, I whipped around and threw one of the weapons blindly, half-hoping that it would hit a target and half-hoping that it would not, for fear of the omnipresent political repercussions. My dress was released after a gasp of pain and I ran, looking halfway behind me to briefly see the Roman guards pulling swords on my uncle, and the lord Darius cradling his right arm, my weapon having stabbed the centre of his palm through. He held his hand up, its silhouette grotesque in the torchlight.

I ran from the room and down the halls amid the indigo swirls and billows of my dress, fearing anarchy and Roman upheaval and conquest and all sorts of other words that I barely understood. The box of – now only four – tridents was clutched to my stomach, and I fled blindly, not sure of where to go.

My decision was taken from me as I passed the voluptuous drapery in the oddly deserted main hall, and a single loosely muscled arm darted out from behind the drapes to clasp my shoulders and pull me into the drapery. Its matching hand came up in the dark to cover my mouth, and it was then that I heard his voice near my ear.

"A shame you've thrown away one of those weapons – I'm sure it was valuable. More so, having speared a Roman." I tried to scream to no avail, and his grip shifted. "Do not struggle. I am here to take you to Sparta."

------------------

Well?


	3. II

**Pax Romana – [2]**

_Disclaimer: See previous chapter; I don't like being redundant._

_Notes: Thanks to all the kind reviewers with their nice words. Sorry to all those how want me to continue with the adult knights timeframe, but I want to finish the past so as to develop a good context for the present story. I hope nobody's too disappointed..._

-------------------

At fifteen, Tristan was a younger shadow of what he is famously known to be now, along with the rest of the famed Sarmatian knights. It had been years since he had last seen the steppes of his homeland, for his method of avoiding the Roman call had been to take a stallion and a weapon, and to make his way in the world. He was a lone warrior in that he depended on no human either for survival or for company – Tristan had travelled Rome extensively under their noses, and then some of the Asia Minor by himself. He would eventually tell me tales of the people he had met – some were warriors like him, and others very different. From the fighters he befriended, he would draw some small skill from their short lessons together, creating the eclectic and elegant style of battle he now employs. Through them he would try many kinds of weapons, and learned to judge for himself which were the most effective.

But, whenever he did talk, Tristan always stressed the importance of the domestic people he had met in his travels – the lessons they had taught him about like. He was a quiet boy, but he listened to every word and in his silence, took it apart until he could use it himself somehow. Through these people he had happened upon his own philosophy – a philosophy of fighting. "Fighting," he would say, "is the truest form of life. As humans, it is the base of what we are, what we do. I am very skilled at fighting, and so I am very skilled at living, at being human. I enjoy battle and taking life, knowing that my will and skill to live is greater than my enemies."

And all this in a fifteen-year-old recluse. There was many a time when I felt that I had squabbled my own short years away in comparison to how he had spent his.

But I didn't know all this yet.

When he caught me in the drapes, I did not even know his name. It was a shock to be so near to him, so much that I froze and became thoughtless, unsure of what to think or do. I had never been so close to anybody outside of my family before. But Tristan being Tristan, he did not care, because there were far more important affairs to be concerned with.

When I began to struggle and pull at his arms, he hissed in my ear, "Be still! Or would you rather I left you to the Romans, whose lord you have so aptly speared?" Needless to say, I stop my movements. His voice was far more imposing than that of any Roman.

A few moments passed, and when he seemed certain that nobody had followed me, he pushed me far enough away to turn and face him. In the dark, I could not make out his features. His grip on my wrist tightened, and he spoke in a hushed, tight voice. "I do not wish to threaten you, but I will if you do not do as I say. Do you understand?"

I turned this over in my head, and then lashed out with my other hand – the one holding the box. "You're with them! Roman scum!"

His hand caught mine, and held it near the other. His eyes glittered darkly when he spoke. "I am no Roman."

And I believed him.

--------------------

From what could be seen, the palace quickly erupted into pandemonium – a cacophony of shouts and confusion. I couldn't understand why all this was happening at that specific moment, and I didn't know why I had been some kind of trigger for this Roman uprising in Macedonia. My father was away, gone to battle the Romans as it had been traditionally done for centuries past. It seemed as though Rome was trying to infiltrate the Macedonian royal house even before it perished on the battlefield.

With servants and houseguests running like rats all over the palace and being chased by guards with swirling scarlet capes, the boy and I went almost unnoticed across the expanse of the marble-floored main hall to the entrance. As we ran, my wrist still caught in his hand and my other arm still uselessly clutching my box of weapons, I could better make out his person, if from the back view. He wore haphazard sections of armour over some limbs, and none over others. Later, he would explain this, saying that wearing armour over these parts hindered his movements in battle. A long and curved scabbard hung loosely from a belt at his waist, the hilt of its housed sword visible, and another shorter broadsword hung at his other hip, slapping against his thigh as he ran. His mop of dark and matted hair was visibly dirty and unwashed – hair, I thought with displeasure, which had touched the skin of my neck when we had stood hidden in the drapery.

A Macedonian soldier caught sight of us running to the exit, and my heart leapt to my throat in – what? Hope? Worry? The soldier exclaimed at the boy, "Stop! Unhand the princess!" and I was suddenly unsure of which male I should hope lived.

The boy did not even falter in his stride as the soldier stepped in his path: he released my wrist only to casually pull the curved longsword from its sheath and hold it out horizontally from his body. I, myself, stopped running to watch the fight, and saw the boy bring the sabre to deeply scratch the marble as he ran at the guard – sending sparks into the man's face. His sword followed the path of the sparks, and as the guard stood blinded, cut a long slash diagonally up his front and neck, and then was resheathed in a single smooth movement.

My countryman fell to the ground, dead, and the boy took my wrist again to run outside.

There, a group of similarly rugged and rundown, quietly deadly warriors waited upon horses taller than I had ever seen. An older, bearded man dismounted from his own horse, laughing as he laid eyes upon the boy and I. He brought two riderless horses to the front of the pack, and then ruffled the boy's long hair as we came near.

"Well done, Tristan!" He commended, smiling kindly at the boy, and then turning his eyes to me. "Princess Isolde. I am sorry for this confusion and the lack of proper explanation, but there is no time."

The boy named Tristan swiftly mounted one of the horses, unconcerned with me and looking to his companions. I stood there, biting my lip uncertainly. Finally, I said, "What is this? Who are you people?"

The older man lightly pressed me towards one of the horses, urging me to mount. As I did, he only said, "We are a band of mercenaries, commissioned to take you out of Macedonia to safety in Sparta. Your house has been overtaken by Romans and by traitors."

While he mounted his own horse, I pressed on, "And what of my family then? My mother? My uncle?"

This time, Tristan answered. "They are not involved in our contract." He shrugged carelessly, and then whistled to his horse. He trotted out of the group and then broke into a gallop, and the rest followed suit. I was to understand that I was leaving my home –alone- with a group of mercenaries. My horse started after them of its own volition, and we were soon riding far away from the confusion of the palace, from which people were then pouring out of, chased by Romans.

I thought of the man, Darius, who knew my face and knew the design of the tattoo on my forearm. The Romans had committed diplomatic suicide in taking over my household before any battle took place. I began to wonder if this _Darius_ had actually been ordered to do this by Rome, or if he was serving his own interests. Either way, my education in politics told me that I was a witness of his political heresy, and I knew he would hunt me to maintain my silence.

I was right. Darius has chased after me these fifteen years since I last stepped foot in Macedonia. Those were my first few moments as a fugitive.

---------------------

After a time when we were far out into the anonymity of the wilderness, this strange and foreign group made sign to each other. The horses stopped, and I understood that we were to make camp amongst the characteristically low and gnarled underbrush of the land, the faded leaves nondescript and inelegant against the dusty Mediterranean hills. We slid from our horses – I perhaps less smoothly than those seasoned fighters – and the older bearded man of before gently took my arm and led me to sit on a large rock while the others concerned themselves with the camp.

"My name is Elan," he said simply, "and I mean to explain what I can to you now that we have time."

There was a kindness, an honesty that lay unguarded in his eyes, as if he were offering me gold and jewels with no thought of their value, and I was unsettled. In the palace, there was always a sense of secrets, for what you knew could either be your power or your undoing. There was a hierarchy based upon manipulation and black hearts, and this man's honesty with me – even as a mercenary – was entirely foreign.

He seemed to sense this, and so began to tell me what he could without any words on my behalf.

"We were all separated commissioned to take the Macedonian princess away from the palace, because spies and scouts had heard solid reports of Roman plans to overthrow the house of Perseus even before the king was defeated in battle." He noted my confused look, and explained. "Macedonia and Greece, you see, are like jewels to the Empire – they represent the ancient ways, ancient knowledge. But their people would never share their ancient customs and education with the Empire while the ancient Antigonid Dynasty was still in existence, and so Rome has planned to take the royal house first, and then take the country. Your father…Perseus," he looked at me sharply, "is very much a fallen king already, and of little worth. But a case was made of you and of your mother, who are still deeply loved by Greeks and Macedonians alike, and so taking you prisoner was probably the reason for what has occurred today."

I became temporarily indignant. "But my father will destroy the Romans in battle when he hears of this –"

" – No. No, he won't." Tristan looked up from his place building a fire, and continued talking in the general direction of the firewood. "Perseus will lose in battle because he is a fool. The Romans will take him as a prisoner and make a mockery of him." He looked back at us once again, his eyes gleaming intelligently behind the lank strands of dark hair.

There was a palpable tension in the air, and I suddenly disliked this open need for honesty that these mercenaries tossed around. The world was much hazier – softer – when one was surrounded by liars. Elan only added to it with his parting words before he rejoined his companions: "We will take you to Sparta because you will be safe there and because you know the area well enough. The last free heir of the Antigonid Dynasty. What you do with your life after that point will not be of our concern."

After those words I became silent, retreating into the fortress of my thoughts. I was silent as I watched them make camp, unloading bedding and canteens and food from their packs. I was silent as Tristan built the fire, and then took a battered flintbox from his pack to light the first spark. Silent as they began to cook a meal over the flame, and silent still when Tristan walked over to me, handing me a crudely hewn bowl of broth and a cloak.

As I wrapped myself into the heavy wool, he sat down heavily next to me. He breathed a sigh and then tore into his own food, ripping large chunks off of his bread and wolfishly devouring his own broth. He spared only a single glance at me, and then offered me the last piece of his bread.

I took it from him slowly, gratefully, just as I was taught to do politely in the palace. He took little to no notice of my genteel manners, and I consciously decided to abandon them in order to become better suited to my company. As I ate, I tossed him an evident look of question.

He caught it, and shrugged, saying, "I was named to be your specific guardian in this commission, as I am the closest to you in age." He closed his eyes.

I regarded him, remembering in vivid detail how he has so easily and quickly dispatched the challenging soldier back in the palace's main hall. I softly inquired, "And how old are you, Tristan?"

His eyes remained shut as he murmured, "Fifteen summers." He cracked open one eye, and then added, as an afterthought, "_You_ are thirteen."

After enduring a silence of about five seconds, he closed his eyes again and settled into himself. I was burning with curiosity about such a savagely deadly boy, but contented myself with asking, "You are a mercenary?"

He nodded, eyes closed.

"Do you like what you do?"

He didn't answer, but he smiled.

"You enjoy killing?"

The smile grew, and he answered heavily, finally, "We all have our talents."

I pondered this, and then asked, "And why are you doing this mission?"

"Gold." He apparently had few scruples with admitting that there was nothing but material interests involved in saving me from chasing Romans.

"If you want gold, then why not serve the Romans?"

He had no answer to this, only a tense silence, before he opened his eyes and turned to me. He looked weary and almost old when he did, eyes with no innocence left in them. They were clear but guarded as he said, "If you are no longer hungry, you should take your rest. We will ride hard tomorrow." Then he stood, and made his way into the dark of the trees. I was not sorry to see him go, but I did as he told me.

---------------------

Well?


	4. III

**Pax Romana – [4]**

_Disclaimer: See previous chapters; I don't like being redundant._

_Notes: All right. I'm considering returning back to the "present" time of this story in the next chapter, although there still is a chapter of history left in me to tell. Regardless, please let me know what you're thinking._

The morning after our departure – _escape_, if you must – I awoke early wanting to have a proper look at the horses. I had never in my life seen horses to large: they were sleek and glossy, but they were incredibly tall, especially to a short girl such as I.

Only Elan was awake at that time, and he bid me good morning with a slight inclination of his head. I was bombarded with the impression that every person in our party was maintaining a distance between themselves and I. In many respects, it made a good deal of sense: after all, they were to leave me, probably alone, in Sparta at the end of this journey. Emotions or attachments were apparently not a part of the requirements for the mercenary occupation. I found myself wondering about their pasts, about their histories: who were their parents? Would they have agreed with their current lifestyle? Who are their children, their lovers, their wives? Did they love them unconditionally?

I walked up to the same horse that had borne me the day before, looking him in the eye and patting his long nose softly. In the clean dew of the morning, I measured him to be above eighteen hands high – an astounding height to me. Satisfied, I gave him a final, rather inadequate brush with my fingers before returning to the dying fire of our camp.

The scent of jasmine was overpowering, and almost heavy in face of the fresh morning air. It was the scent of my home. I grew still, caught up in the impermeable nostalgia of my life in Macedonia with my family – a life that I probably would never return to, nor see the likes of ever again, Like poverty, and sickness, and the clammy texture of diseased flesh, it had in these short hours already become foreign to me.

Tristan, who was now up and walking around, began strapping his few belongings inside the saddlebag on his horse. He took a single, cool glance at my facial expression from under his hair, and then looked back to his task. He didn't even bother with good mornings or salutations, he merely ordered grimly, "If you must grieve, then save it for a better time." He pulled finally on the strap, and, satisfied with its security, began walking back to the fire.

I followed him. "_Save it for a better time_…what are you talking of?"

He sighed heavily, as if exasperated with me, and glared balefully from under his hair. I didn't care much for or about his glares, and he knew it, so he grudgingly elaborated as he laboured about his tasks. "You," he began, tossing water from a canteen on the remnants of the fire, "were about to get weepy, for whatever reason. In my experience," he stood and crossed over to where his weapons lay on the ground, "weepy females always bring disaster upon a group. So please," he faced me briefly, "save the weeping for when you're alone in Sparta."

_I couldn't believe this boy!_ "I'm sorry," I said to his back as he turned to pick up his broadsword, "but you could just give me a slight amount of sympathy – I've left my entire family to the Romans, and I will probably never see them again!"

Tristan buckled the belt from which the shorter sword and its scabbard hung around his waist, answering lazily, "I _could_ give you sympathy, but the enemies we will run into along the road to Greece will not." He looked me in the eye, and the thought of impending battle with thieves and rogues and Romans stopped me cold. He picked up the long sabre and its belt, and added very frankly, "You should be thankful you no longer have family to tie you down. You're no longer confined by propriety. You're free."

His last words lent a kind of brightness to his eyes that was all his own, as if this were a private knowledge of his that he was sharing with me. I didn't even know what to say, and he knew that as well.

He tightened the second belt around his waist, and then looked directly at me. "Get ready to ride," he said, "we leave very shortly."

Around me, as the morning brightened, the scent of jasmine was becoming fainter.

As the days past, Tristan unwittingly (and, on his part, probably quite unwillingly) became my anchor of sorts. It's a natural course for a person to take after suffering emotional devastation, to latch onto something or someone. Tristan was a boy of rarely surrendered and freely offered words, but I made it my business to coax them out of him. I held the baubles of information and wisdom that his words embodied to me like chainmail, as if they were all that I had left to protect my mind from insanity. Comparing him to how he is now, I suppose Tristan spoke more as a boy than as a man, and he was far less intimidating. It is difficult for a boy to be as grizzled and deadly as he is now. He also had a sense of humour, if slightly sadistic, but rarely laughed heartily and out loud.

Now, he is a man, and he has become as remote to me as the isle of Britain, a jagged landscape unfamiliar to all my senses.

On horseback, I had many conversations with him, as I was far too shy to acquaint myself properly with the rest of the party. They must have thought I was some sort of pompous twit of Macedonian nobility, which, in fact, I was.

Our dialogues must have gone something like this:

Day One: In Which Sir Tristan Actually _Starts_ the Conversation

Hours had passed since we had left our first camp, and he turned to me quite suddenly, as if something had just occurred to him. "How useless are you in battle?"

At first, I was almost embarrassed: he had assumed that I was some idiot noble princess whose hands were like cream and had never seen blood before the events of yesterday. Of course, I didn't want to admit to myself and to him that I really hadn't seen a true battle, though I had been trained with some weapons – if ancient ones. I was like a mismatched, disoriented girl, mistakenly tangled up in a tapestry of menial battle skills. I defaulted, "I don't understand."

He stared straight ahead at the open road, but gestured lightly with one hand. "I need to know how closely we must watch you should we run into a fight." The others were beginning to listen to this dialogue. Finally, he looked at me, and then pointed with his chin to the gift from my uncle, the box of ornate tridents, which was packed in my saddlebag. "Can you use those weapons?" His eyes were clear, and free of ridicule.

I answered honestly, looking at my hands and hoping he would not laugh at me for owning such outdated weaponry, particularly when compared with his beautifully rendered swords. "Well enough, but they are an ancient style of weapon. And terribly crafted. They only _look_ nice."

Looking away, Tristan smiled almost wistfully. This was his amused face, I would learn. "You're smarter than you look."

It was the highest compliment he had deigned to give me so far.

"What does that mean?"

He wasn't apologetic at all, just honest. "You don't look as though you know much about weaponry." Our eyes locked, but I was the first to look away.

I said, "My uncle taught me some skills, but not very much." I didn't want to lie to him and overestimate my skills. All that would result in would be his abandoning me in case of ambush, expecting that I could take care of myself, and then I'd be dead, or robbed, or raped. I didn't fancy myself such a foolish girl as to risk those outcomes in favour of his admiration.

"Never been in battle?" He asked this almost curiously, as if he had never laid eyes upon such a breed of person in his life.

"No…"

"Never seen a battle?" His tone was even more curious.

"No…"

"Wonderful," he deadpanned, and then cast a few glances about. All those of our group who had been listening and watching closely looked away surreptitiously. I sighed.

Day 3: In Which I Begin to Question What Has Occurred.

"Tristan, do you know of the Roman who organized the coup in my house?"

Not a single muscle in his face moved. I had hoped for a bit more of a reaction. "Very little," he admitted.

"His name is Darius," I prompted, and received a mildly contemptuous look in response to it. The look in his eyes suggested something along the lines of, _if you know this, then I most definitely knew this ten times over ten days before YOU ever heard of it_.

"I know. I was watching you by that time," Tristan repudiated. He had apparently, very few scruples with admitting this diverting fact as well. The boy had very little to be ashamed of, in his mind.

"Oh." I waited for him to elaborate, but remembered quickly enough that this was Tristan I was talking to. Tristan, who rarely spoke unless spoken to. Tristan, who preferred the dark to having company. "What do you suppose he will do next?" I asked.

He shifted upon his horse, and then recited his answer as if he were in a schoolroom, and excessively bored. "I expect he'll hand over control of the palace to Roman authorities. He'll probably be highly commended for his work for the Empire, and retire in wealth and notoriety."

The mere idea that the terrible Roman might experience such a happy life at the expense of mine was both angering and depressing at the same time. I was unaware of how to react, except: "That's horrible! He was an awful man." I looked down at my hands.

Tristan continued with his sermon as if uninterrupted, though he directed the rest of it as advice towards me. "Though I would suggest you keep your nose clean and your head down for the rest of your years. What happened in your palace was dishonourable, even by Roman standards." The way he looked at me made me believe that he was ordering me to do as he had told me, and I had little inclination to do the contrary. So far, his advice had not led me astray.

"What do you mean?"

"It defies Roman principles to attack defenceless people, like those who inhabited the palace." He explained. "Roman tactics state that they must first defeat the enemy's army until near massacre, and it is only then that they may offer an alliance of sorts to the enemy. To serve under the Roman flag. Only then can they invade civilian areas."

I briefly wondered just how he had come to know so much about Roman tactics, but did not ask for fear of raising his ire. "What are you trying to suggest then?"

"I am suggesting that your testimony to Roman authorities would destroy his reputation and probably incarcerate him. He will therefore devote a sizeable portion of his resources to finding – and silencing – you." He said all of this very bluntly, and rubbed his neck with the back of his gloves.

It was difficult for me to accept the differences between he and I. Each day went by and I unearthed more discrepancies between us, despite our closeness in ages. I found myself longing to find a similarity or a hobby in common, but all I came across was further validation of his life's philosophies, and disproof of those that I had lived my own life by. Being around him made my mind into a quagmire, and it frustrated me in that I could not admit to myself that he might actually know more than me – he, a hardened boy-soldier, and I the pint-sized and intellectualized noble. The frustration translated itself into my voice, and into my words, though he paid it no heed: "Well I hate him! Why don't you let me tell the tale to the nearest Roman officer, then?"

My eyes may have been flashing, but he might as well have been discussing the pedigree of our horses, his voice contained so little excitement and emotion. "Can't. If we don't know the extent of his resources, then we have to assume that any officer might be one of his devotees."

I hated his soldier's logic – a logic which now seemed to apply itself to my whole new life. I asked desperately, "So what you're saying is that I have to hide from every Roman officer I see for the rest of my life?"

He answered conversationally, "At least until you grow older and hide that tattoo on your forearm." His eyes darted down to my sleeve for only a second, and I rubbed my forearm warily.

I narrowed my eyes at nothing in particular, and said rather petulantly, "You're no good at consoling people, Tristan." Perhaps it would shut him and his unwavering truth up.

He smirked, as if delighting in this 'praise'. "I only possess skills that I need," he said simply.

Day 6: In Which I Think Tristan Is Beginning to Warm Up to Me

I began to ask him questions of his origins, of his beliefs and of his family, and Tristan began to answer me. It was no great friendship, but the days before were branded freshly in my hindsight – the brush-offs and final words he had thrown my way whenever I had asked him about himself. I drove myself to believe that he was beginning to take a liking to me, though truly it must have been a sheer surrender to my queries.

"Am I to understand that you have abandoned your family, Tristan?" When I asked this opening question, we had long since crossed into Greece, and were so far travelling unhindered. No tidings had come of my father, Perseus, in his impending battle against the Romans, nor of the occupants or civilians of my house in Macedonia. I surprised myself with my capacity to divert myself from thinking of our schism, and had become remarkably pleasant. Or, in retrospect, more pleasant than I had been to begin with.

He only corrected, "'Abandoned' would be the wrong word." Tristan stared straight ahead, as he always did, rolling his body smoothly with the walk of his horse. There was no expression on his face.

I had learned to persevere in dialogue with him, and did not turn him loose from conversation. "Then what would be the right word?"

Shrugging, Tristan only said, "There is none. I was driven away by necessity." His eyes briefly met mine.

Like an interrogator, I latched onto the openings in his statements. "What necessity? Like I have been driven away from my family?" Perhaps I had found something he and I had in common?

"No."

Frowning, I asked almost searchingly of him, "And yet you do not feel any pity for me, in that I never even said farewell to my own?"

Finally, he looked straight at me, holding my gaze. He smirked crookedly, as if he had a tick in the corner of his mouth. "Well, you don't seem to be suffering too badly. Haven't cried once." _Had he been watching me? _I did not know what to make of this prospect, but was quietly thrilled.

Childishly, I retorted, "Because you told me not to!" I recalled his saying to save my weeping for Sparta, my blood boiling.

The smile grew. "And you listened?" He only asked back, silencing me.

After a few minutes of retreating into myself, I resolved to ignore his teasing, and resumed my interrogation, of sorts. Sighing, I started anew: "Where are you from then, Tristan?"

The mirth had apparently left his bones as well, and he seemed almost grey in the hollowness that was left, for that moment. "North." He was purposefully not specific, and returned to his casual straight-ahead stare.

"From within the Empire?" I asked, attempting to narrow the area down. I leafed through memories of maps and geography, a privilege few achieved. When he didn't answer, I guessed, "Sarmatia?"

"Yes," he said honestly.

I was at a loss with something to say, finally realizing that he was a citizen of an occupied territory, like me. I felt a pang of guilt at asking him about his possible alliances with Rome on the days we met. I asked rather blandly, "Was it nice there?"

Again with that wistful smile, Tristan said, "I think it's nice everywhere, and so I am happy anywhere." It was a nice thought, to be happy anywhere.

My curiosity got the better of me again, and I resumed trying to sketch in his history in a character portrait. "When did you leave?" I asked innocently enough, but he did not answer. Finally, I gave up, and instead asked, "So…since then?"

He glanced at me, an eyebrow raised under his mane of dark hair. "Since then what?"

I threw out my arms, releasing the reins of my horse briefly and gesturing wildly. "What have you done? What have you accomplished?"

"Probably a hell of a lot more than you have."

Pressing on further, as I refused to be bested by his naturally secretive and repelling responses, I asked, "Like what?"

His gaze turned to the sky, and it seemed as though he was caught in a moment of numbness, in a never-ending eternity wrapped in a moment of nostalgia. He said, "Honed my skills in battle. Learned the land, the languages. Talked to people who have lived." He smiled again, so there must have been fond memories in there somewhere.

I smiled too, and inquired, "And what did they have to say?"

Looking at me with that same smile, I felt both warm and safe, and then quite silly for feeling the first two. 'Warm and safe', I thought to myself, and then chastised myself for using clichés. As I did all this in my head, Tristan had answered, "Many things."

"Anything important?"

With a higher-than-thou glint in his eyes, he responded wisely, "Everything is important."

Trying to respond in kind and to sound just as worldly and illustrious, I said, "To you, everything is always something."

He baited me innocently, "Do you disagree?"

I greatly disliked talking in vague, useless generalities, and I also disliked being led off-topic. I shook my hair and instead returned to the previous topic: "So what did these people most frequently tell you?"

As if strategically surrendering to my persistence, he finally allowed himself to answer: "They told me to find my talent, and to forge my purpose in life out of my talent. Only then could I be happy." This seemed wise enough, and he appeared to agree.

"And have you found it?" I watched him closely.

"Yes," he said simply. I waited. He said nothing. I waited.

Then, "What is it? What is your talent?"

From the front of our party, Elan, who had evidently been overhearing our dialogue, interjected quite jovially, "Isn't it obvious?" All members of the group save Tristan and I shared a laugh over that one.

Glaring balefully at Elan's back, Tristan answered as if there had been no interjection. He said with obvious enjoyment and relish: "Killing. Taking life. Wielding my sword, spilling blood. The art of battle." He seemed to take such pleasure out of saying the words; I could only imagine his love for actual bloodshed. The image that my mind created from this analysis was almost disturbing, and I did not know what to think.

Again, almost like a child, I pouted as I answered finally, "Tristan, you're awful. Sometimes I hate you."

Everyone laughed at that, and silence fell between he and I once more.

Well?


	5. IV

**Pax Romana – [4]**

_Disclaimer: See previous chapters; I don't like being redundant._

_Notes: Thanks again to all the very kind reviewers for being so complacent with my erratic writing style. This chapter spans both of the timeframes, hopefully in a coherent manner. Also, for my purposes, I am completely disregarding the parts of the movie in which Dagonet, Lancelot and Tristan die. I thought many parts of the movie were ridiculous, but those were high on the list. I am not offering any explanation for it – that's just the way it is._

* * *

_"She was my ward fifteen years ago in smuggling her out of Macedonia and into Sparta."_

Now what on the face of this green earth did that mean? Like an antique scholar sorting furiously through the annals of time, I tossed myself back into my memories of my escape from Darius some fifteen years before. I found nothing within them that might have indicated _Tristan_ acting as a kind of guardian. At most, I can recognize after aging that he was some sort of a forced companion to save me from drowning in my own self-pitying misery, as most hapless maidens were apt to do. It pains me to think that he was _right_, all those years ago, when he told me that I was "free" of my family, for despite the greatest of my life's hills I have lived fuller years than I had ever thought possible back in Macedonia. But regardless, I, his ward? I had never even meant so much to him.

Stepping forward and out of his potential grasp. I spoke rather boldly to Britain's king and queen, "My lord, if I may…" In the following silence, Arthur Castus only levelled a cool and intelligent appraising look at me. He was an infinitely better looking Roman than that power-hungry urchin Darius. "My lord, Tristan was in no way my _guardian_; he was but fifteen. He was merely one of the party."

Yes, I fully realized just how little light my interjection shed on the issue at hand. I was actually being rather childish, like I had been to Tristan when I was thirteen years of age, but I was upset at being thus manhandled. Unconsciously, I sought to contradict every word that might pass his lips, however few there usually were.

When nobody else spoke, Arthur took charge as he was ever meant to do. With one hand, (the other loosely clasping the delicate hand of his queen), he rubbed the bridge of his nose, as if in exhaustion. He spared Guinevere a tender glance, and then looked back upon the strange pair of Tristan and I.

It made me mildly satisfied when he addressed his questions to Tristan, who, after all, had started this entire fiasco. "Tristan, please explain."

If he had ever had any qualms about speaking, there were apparently nonexistent at that moment. "Arthur, if this woman is allowed to remain in Britain, war will come to your foothills."

Little to no impact from his words was visible upon the warrior king's face. Guinevere, however, sat up straighter in her chair, her eyes darting rapidly between all the other figures within the room. Tristan's harsh words had registered with him, I suppose, and Arthur looked as though he was rolling them around in circles in his mind. Of course, I didn't even remotely know the man –I had only been living there for a few months, and in anonymity- so I could've been completely wrong in my impressions of him. Arthur only asked further: "How?"

Still and deathly silent, Tristan suddenly appeared to be some dark, overexperienced apparition. I was struck by a sudden sense of realization, finally acknowledging that if I had ever known some inkling about him as a boy, it was nothing in face of this frighteningly deadly soldier. When he spoke from behind his braids, the rest of his body remained very still. "As I said, she is a renowned fugitive of Rome. There is a man who would think nothing of war if only to silence her." He did not elaborate (and I knew why: Romans and their lack of honour, particularly in an affair as grand as the overthrow of Macedonia, was not fodder meant to be lightly tossed around), but I could make out his and Arthur's eyes contact. Guinevere sat, quiet, as if forgotten.

"You will explain this further to me, Tristan. But later." He came to decisions quickly. "You are certain of these truths?" In asking this, Arthur glanced between both Tristan and I. I was not sure of whom was to speak, but should have known. Tristan, it would seem, still took every opportunity to keep his words to himself.

Finally, I said softly, "Yes, he searches."

Straight to the point, the king asked, "Which Roman is this?"

At this, Tristan answered, "A man by the name of Darius; last I heard of it." The way he intoned the name made me think that he still believed he knew far more on the subject than I did.

I felt as if an exclamation was building to an unstoppable pressure in my chest. As if grasped by some inane need to justify myself, a fugitive, for taking refuge in this king's country, I burst out saying, "I came to Britain only because it was no longer under Roman occupation. It would be more difficult for him to find me –"

The men ignored me, not so much like they had Guinevere. She, I thought, only spoke when she had something worthwhile saying. She did not mince words. Arthur asked, "What do you suggest then, Tristan?" It was as if a stone wall had been suddenly built between them and I – a reasonable reaction, considering the childishness of my exclamations. But I knew none of this as I took my fury out on Tristan, an easier target because I knew him.

"You'd betray me again to the Romans! Give me as a sacrifice to further your own ends! I understand now – how you have not changed, Tristan." There was a tangible scorn in my voice, but unsurprisingly, he shrugged it off as if it were a fine layer of water upon his skin. He did not look at me, nor did his voice waver, when what he said next did take me by surprise and leave me speechless.

Gravely, his eyes stormy: "She was my responsibility then, and so she is my responsibility now. _I_ will take her, Arthur; out of Britain, in hiding. Her fate is my cross to bear."

Arthur did not consider this, but issued an ultimatum unto Tristan that would change my life. "No. No, that is not possible. I'm sorry, but this woman is not important enough for me to spare one of my knights. Either she will leave Britain, alone, or she will stay here under our protection. You may decide this, Tristan – you are our only link to this woman. If you will not have her here, then Britain will not have her either. What say you?"

A long quiet followed. I was frightened of what the knight might say. Yes, frightened, I was shaking in my boots, right up until the moment when he spoke softly but firmly, "She is _my_ ward. She will stay."

* * *

It struck something inside of me, all of this unexpected but probably not unworthy drama, just as everything seems to. I am a woman self-professed to being caught up in the silken layers of my past, the times before and after I encountered the mercenaries, memories covered in grains of sand and bits of dust. I have little to cast my mind ahead to; there be no future for the deposed princess of Macedon to be had – all I possibly have is the next land I might flee to when Darius' spies catch up with me. Why not live in the past? It is a pillowed, inoffensive place, and I was an addicted indulger of escapism.

Arthur's prospect of my staying in Britain under protection cast me into a sphere I had not seen the likes of in fifteen years. For too long, I had sought comfort only in myself, in silence, and in the occasional lover, but the crux of the matter was that I had led a life of necessary solitude – quite like Tristan himself, although the difference between he and I was that he mostly preferred the solitude. In those brief few seconds in which Arthur rested the decision of my fate upon Tristan's hardened, battle-weary shoulders, I got a sense of any things – fear (of his disdain for me, for he had treated me with no silken glove) – exclusion (for I honestly did not belong in this place, nor in this company) – but mostly I felt regret, within myself (for those things which I had said to him in our parting fifteen years ago).

* * *

By the time our party had reached Sparta, thereby fulfilling their obligation both to me and to their gold, Tristan had evidently become some sort of an anchor to me. I flush to think of my silliness now, but at the time I did everything and anything in my power to have him recognize my presence, give me acknowledgment, _something_ – because I admired the interplay of dark and light within him so much that I supposed if he ever _did_ favour me, he might pass some of it into myself.

Of course, it was all for nothing. On the day of our parting, I became the fool in so many different ways that sometimes I prefer to believe that I walked to Sparta by myself.

The men who had contracted this group of mercenaries were still swathed in literal and figurative shadows to me. We arrived in Sparta and went promptly to a sumptuous (well, at least by Spartan standards) house of nobles. Each member of the group convened in another room with a set of swarthy men and women –evidently the contractors- save for Tristan, who was designated to see me settled in several rooms of the house before joining them.

Elan, having long since abandoned the Macedonian rules of royal propriety like I had abandoned the country itself, clasped my hand within his and raised it to his lips. All he said to me was this: "Make use of your time here, and of what we have taught you. The Roman will pursue you. My blessings upon you, little lady," and I was to understand that this was our final parting. With acknowledgments to all within the party, I left with Tristan to go to my new rooms.

I found it sad that all my belongings were the clothes upon my back, the few menial survival items the mercenaries had given to me, and the box of garish tridents. I turned to Tristan, holding the box, "I suppose I might take your advice and sell these. They might fetch a good price."

His face remained unchanged, immoveable. He regarded the box thoughtfully, though he had seen it thousands of times before. "Perhaps, but this is a city of war. They will know the difference between good and bad weaponry." Tristan, oh Tristan, a young man of blunt-ended honesty.

In an effort to prolong conversation, I asked him something that I had been wondering since my flight from the palace. I expected no sympathetic words from him, as I had received none thus far. "What is it that I am supposed to do here?"

A shrug. "What you will." He began to peer around the room, probably searching for valuable items to steal on his way out. I imagined with great despondency that he must be incredibly gladdened and relieved to get rid of me.

I clasped my hands behind my back, after setting the box down on the pallet nearby. "Perhaps I will learn from the people, like you have." I watched him closely.

The wistful look in his eyes returned, and he replied in a monotone, "You would greatly improve your chances of survival in doing that."

I smiled. "Then I will start tomorrow." By now, he must have noticed that I was staring quite intently at him.

He suddenly looked as though a last-minute thought had happened upon him, and he lightly swung his rucksack down from his shoulder. "Before I go, I meant to –"

Here is where the tale gets embarrassing. Young Sir Tristan, ever cold and immobile, and at that exact moment _distracted_, was then accosted by a thirteen-year-old version of myself. He heard the movement of my feet, looked up, and it was then that I rather inelegantly pressed my lips to his.

Silence. Stillness.

Of course, as a sheltered and beyond inexperienced young girl, I had no inkling of what I should do after that moment, having expected _him_ to take the reins of whatever it was that was going on. Tristan, again being Tristan, did nothing.

Until another second later, when he pulled away from _me_, an intensely quizzical look adorning his visage, and gave me an honest question: "Isolde, what are you doing?"

_Never_ would there be a madder tint that could emulate the shade of my flush in that moment. I stammered, falling over myself in mind and in body, and finally stammered out, "I thought that—"

A man at the door interrupted me, and I was shamefully grateful for it. "Tristan. You have business downstairs." The opened door let a cooling breeze upon my face, and Tristan gave me one last curious glance before following the man out.

I sank onto the low level of my new pallet, my box jarring into my side, and I ignored everything for a few moments. With my face in my hands, I willed myself not to cry, to conduct myself like a girl of my station, and to be strong. The heat in my face did not diminish, and I went over to the window to stick my head out – wishing to find another breeze.

Instead what I found – or rather, _saw_ – was a brightly decorated carriage in the street, just before the door to that very house. It was a richly furnished carriage. Adorned with scarlet trappings. _Scarlet_. I momentarily forgot my humiliation. _Romans._

I raced down the stairs with as much quiet as could be found in my bones to find Tristan, Elan, _someone_ and to tell them of our plight. I was at the base of the stairs when I saw the swish of a red cloak in the nearest room, and Tristan himself's armour clad body beside it.

A hush came over me, and I watched the short scene unfold.

From his vantage point, Tristan held himself as he ever did – without any discomfort or indication of his internal feelings. "What?" He demanded of the Roman officer, and of the officers behind him.

The first one spoke to him, again in that traditional Roman accent that I recognized from Darius' voice. "You're name is Tristan?" No response. "And you are from Sarmatia?" Again, no response, only Tristan staring back stoically. The Roman pointed at the exposed skin of Tristan's forearm. "From whence did you get that scar?" I peered at what I could see of his skin, and noticed for the first time an ugly faded scar marring the inside of Tristan's forearm. I also wondered where he had received that scar.

The Roman, having received no answers thus far, made up his mind on his identity. "You _are _Tristan. We have been sent to inform you of your obligations to Rome as a bred Sarmatian knight. Your post has been selected." There was an atonal way about how the Roman spoke these words, almost as if they were part of a script. I, however, was too astonished to consider such subtle things.

The other Roman officers had tightened their grips upon their swords, as if expecting a fight. None came from Tristan, who merely stood as he ever had and said not a word. "Will you not fight?" The first Roman asked again.

They received a single answer from behind the dark hair. "There is little honour in that."

I fell back against the stairs, then scrambled up to my room. It was silence as I now finally thought of the family I had left behind, the only people who truly cared about my well-being without involving gold. Silence, as I looked into my mind's eye and saw them at the mercy of Romans, the pride our culture is so tied to stripped away, the mockery they who survived would endure. Silence, as I saw the bloodstains upon the walls where I would so cheerfully pass each blissful, ignorant day. Silence, as I saw the red of the Roman cloaks in my mind, coming ever closer, suffocating, always closer and closer andcloserandcloserandcloser – _look_, one, two, three of them, oh four and fivesixtoomanytocountnowcomingcloser –

Having finally reached my destination in Sparta, I then allowed myself to grieve. To weep. After all, it didn't quite matter what Tristan thought anymore.

* * *

"I have news that may interest you," he said to me when he returned, without conscience and most definitely without shame. I sat upon my pallet, and I did not look at him once. That time, I did not face him, not for shame of what I had done –kissing him without reason or thought- but for shame of what he had done. Conferred with the Romans. The Empire which had effectively slaughtered my life, burned the remainders of it in a pyre of greed, and then scattered the ashes into the winds of time so that history would forget my family's name. This boy whom I had so believed in. _Traitor_. The word was sour in my mouth, and I could not rasp it into life, into being just yet.

When I did not respond, Tristan continued speaking from his side of the room. "Perseus has been defeated in battle; his army massacred. Macedonia effectively belongs to the Romans."

_Come to gloat at me, Roman sycophant? _My life, my breeding came back to me. My intellect. What had I been doing all this time as we had journeyed from my home to Sparta? I had lost myself and my intelligence in a flurry to grasp this boy, this fickle fickle boy's, attention. I was ashamed of myself and of my actions. I could not be redeemed. But though transplanted, there was still enough honour left in me to defend my nationality. I would not be silent and allow him to walk away unscathed, having reduced me to the bottom so effectively.

"Traitor." I finally spoke the word, just like he always speaks: from under a curtain of my hair. "Traitor." It was a bitter word to employ, but employ it I did. And worse. "I call you by name: traitor." The words spilled from my lips like pearls fallen from a pirate's chest, never-ceasing. "Treacherous, treasonous, betrayer. Tristan be thy name." I met his steady gaze with a shaky one of my own, each breath I took rasping through my throat and adding to the shudders that then racked through my body. "The Romans own you. To think that I felt shame after that first time I questioned your allegiance." I cocked my head to the side, an acid chuckle escaping my throat. Then, broken: "How could you?"

Even under that onslaught of words, young Tristan remained ever the same. "I owe you nothing." He spoke it as a certainty.

I laughed again, a near hysterical laugh. I fancied myself mad with rage, despair, heartache, betrayal. "So you would have yourself believe. What did they offer you? What will they give you?"

Tristan responded with little else. "I owe you no explanation."

I demanded answers of him with my teeth clenched. "Am _I_ a part of your bargain with them? Will you receive a nice heap of gold for delivering me to them?" I imagined myself delivered to Darius' feet. I imagined the Roman's fury. I imagined the hollow hole my trident had left in the centre of his palm, so much like the Roman's beloved Christ.

"This does not concern you." He was deadly still.

I spat at him: "_Romans_ concern me, as you so aptly kept reminding me, because they are out for my blood. Romans! And you! You are their pawn!"

Finally, I broke through to him and he hissed back, "Be silent!"

My rage continued from my huddled corner, my voice taking up the space in the room like wings unfurled. "_I_ don't owe _you_ any silence! Stupid, stupid, wretched boy." My voice broke, sadly, pathetically, and I wept for so many reasons that I thought my body might split into pieces, so each might effectively mourn a separate grief. Alas, it was not so.

All that happened was this: Tristan retrieved an item wrapped in cloth from his rucksack and placed it gingerly on the pallet, before slinging the bag again over his shoulder, and leaving without a glance over his shoulder.

_I shall never see him again_, I thought to myself, and was glad and despondent at the very same time. I did not go to look out of my window to watch him mount his horse, for fear of seeing him ride away in a pack of trotting scarlet cloaks – which was, in fact, exactly what happened.

That was when my life began anew. And when my sobs subsided, I happened upon a heavy burden of a discovery: I was thirteen years old, and I was so, utterly alone.

* * *

Well?


	6. V

**Pax Romana – 5**

_Disclaimer: See previous chapters; I don't like being redundant._

_Notes: All right. Now we're moving on officially to bigger, better, and definitely more mature subject matter. I just hope that I can write it out as well as satisfactorily as I did the rest…anyway, thanks again to all reviewers for their kind words. Also, in regards to possibly writing **flashback** or something of its ilk whenever memories are intertwined – I would sooner kill myself than write something so juvenile and heavy-handed. If I can't write a memory sequence without a heading, then I might as well just give up the grudge right now. Yeah._

* * *

I had a little more than an inkling of a suspicion that Tristan was angry with me. I suspected that he had been angry or frustrated or short with me for almost the entire duration of our acquaintance. However, at the point in time when he and I were dismissed from the presence of the king and queen, I suspected that the silent sir was more than a tad furious with me. Of course, none of those suspicions of mine mattered in those moments, as I was the stereotypical woman and was therefore much more vociferous in my fury for him.

Perhaps it was the small modicum of respect and genteel, princess-like countenance that I had left in me that kept me from railing at him, still standing like a block of iron under his mop of hair and braids. I was silenced, mostly because I did not understand why he had vouched for my safety and protection upon Arthur's request. _Tristan,_ I thought to myself,_ was a peon of Rome_.

O! how little I knew of him and of his history then!

I considered his wording: _she is **my** ward._ A possessive statement, I concluded, and this was not as heartening of a conclusion as you might suspect it to be. With any other man, one might consider such a declaration in public to be a declaration of care and deep feelings, but I knew better. If anything, I knew that Tristan did not waste words – when he had to use them, he chose them with the same careful deliberation over which he chose weapons. If anything, what he had said of me was intimidating and foreboding; I knew he would swear any other men –knights! - away from me, and that suggested that I would only ever have _him_ to rely upon.

A frightening prospect.

He didn't know it, but I knew very well myself that I had lived more than half of my life relying solely on my own wits. I swore silently and with no audience as witness that I would continue to the same, despite my new proximity to him; my independence had served me well thus far, and I refused out of feminine dignity to submit to the newfound authority of a _man_. It had been my wits that had brought me here to Britain, so I could only assume that there was some value in whatever happened on this strange isle.

Something else he did not know was how and for how long I had been so near to him: it had been at least three or four months, all filled with good and sobering work – ironically, most of it at a tavern. Yes, I had seen him countless times, imbibed with ale and strong brew from the isle of Skye, just like his brothers of the sword – only quietly so. He did not know how much care I had taken in avoiding him, in avoiding the knights, so that he might never lay eyes upon me and recognize my face. I was too cautious and too accustomed to the life of a fugitive to believe that he would not recognize my face fifteen years later…

Of course, now it is amusing to think that Tristan did not, in fact, recognize me from my face. He laid eyes on the skin of my forearm, outstretched to dole out more wine, and there it was – the mark of my overthrown house of Macedon, Antigonid, and he knew me for who I was, and brought me to Arthur because his obligation to the king obviously weighed more on him than his ended obligations to me.

The silence between us grew awkward quite immediately as my analytical thoughts ceased. He walked with a slow, measured walk of a panther, all dark and smooth movements, and I merely followed – as he probably would not let me any place else. Tristan only stopped to confer with a passing guard in hushed tones that left it unquestionable that I was to be shut out of all affairs, whether they concerned me or not, and then he continued on his way with me following.

A door.

A door, which he opened with a heavy iron key from his pocket. He pushed the heavy slab of wood open with a single hand and, without chivalry I noted, entered the room first and disappeared into the dark. I was to understand that I was to follow.

I did follow, into a twilit kind of semi-blackness, until he struck a flint and a stone to light a glass lantern, bathing the room in a lowly glow. This was a bedchamber, spacious enough, and unoccupied. I understood what was going on. Tristan turned and took a single look at me, and then did something very odd: he lay down the key, flint and stone, and then moved from his place by the lantern to stand between my body and the doorway, for no reason at all, effectively blocking my escape. I fidgeted.

He stared at me without shame or reservation; a trait from his youth that he had not last to time. Finally, he said simply, "You're different."

Finding my frustration and anger with him a bit difficult to smother, I allayed my inner vengeful spirit with: "Well, you're just as astute as you ever were."

A knowing glint showed in his eyes, despite the many strands of hair. A smirk, so familiar. "Perhaps not so different." I caught a glimpse of the markings upon his high cheekbones; markings which had not been there fifteen years ago.

I attempted to regain my footing, finding my rhetorical sparring skills not quite up to par. "And you still enjoy talking in vague generalities?" It was a rather sorry remark.

Without a change in expression, he retorted in monotone: "I don't enjoy talking at all, lest it be with those whom I respect. Even they can grow tiresome." A pause, and then he grew tired of trading barbs with me. He turned business-like, efficient: "You'll stay here now. You work at the tavern?" Tristan's eyes dared me to quietly to lie to him, to reap the consequences of his forever holding all the information. I did not dare, and I nodded. He said, "Then I shall next see you tomorrow-night."

When I said nothing, he left without another word, save for instructing me to lock the door from the inside. He was gone, like a wisp of blue, exotic smoke, and I stood there in a foreign room wondering if it had all been a dream, a mirage, a strange opium.

* * *

Vanora demanded explanations of my disappearance the night before, as my shift had not ended and I had probably caused her more grief than I was worth. But her wont for explanations did not stem form her indignation at being saddled with more work; no, she had seen Tristan drag me off and out of the tavern, and now she _had_ to know it all.

"Tristan, I understand, is the most reclusive of them _all_…and it _is_ their reclusive nature that makes the knights so tempting…" She said to me with glittering eyes, casting glances over the wooden tables before the bar at which we stood, conversing in whispers. Most of the regular patrons, knights included, had not yet arrived for the night, and so we were free to talk all we wished, our duties reduced.

I attempted to draw her attention away, unto herself. "You know, Bors will never trust your fidelity if you continue to talk of the rest of the knights that way. It is no surprise that he thinks your newest is Lancelot's child…"

She slapped my hand. "_Don't_ think I'll be so easily distracted, Isolde. And anyway, it doesn't matter what Bors thinks; it's what _I_ know. Now, what happened?" An impish smile alighted on her face. "Did he take you to his rooms? Or someplace else? Whenever Tristan _does_ bed a woman, he always chooses one whom I can never get a good answer out of, and I _swear_ that I will get them out of you…"

A call went up from among the few patrons at the table, all of them looking over to us and shouting for more drink. I pulled away from our place standing at the bar, but she grasped my arm firmly, laughing, "Don't you dare!"

I smiled back at her, and said, "Vanora, I didn't _lie_ with Tristan! I'm sorry, but my standards for seduction are higher than a man simply dragging me away from work without a word to his chambers!"

"I don't know," She said to me with a devilish gleam in her eye, "He's so mysterious that his allure does all the seduction _for_ him!" But she sobered a little, and then asked, "Well then, why did he drag you away after all?"

Sighing, I reached over the wood of the bar to grasp a large carafe of ale, answering, "Let us just say, he and I have a history fifteen years old, and a journey together of two countries before he betrayed me for Rome." Even to me, this was a quieting statement, and I walked over to the hailing men with raised tankards in silence, with no saucy remarks crossing my lips, as was habit.

Vanora was still waiting for me when I came back with a much lighter carafe. "What do you mean, 'he betrayed you for Rome'? Tristan despises the Roman Empire, as does every knight of Sarmatia who was stationed here."

Through grim and tightened lips, I said, "He aided me with a party of mercenaries to flee from my home, having been attacked by the Romans, but when we arrived at our destination, he joined with a party of Romans anyway." It was a bitter memory.

Exclaiming loudly, Vanora grasped my fingers in a strong clasp. "Isolde, you don't understand!"

I retorted strongly, unwilling to continue the topic, "What is there to understand? He betrayed me, even after witnessing the horrors Rome dealt my family, and I have despised his name from that day to this." There was finality to my words that I hoped she would catch, but Vanora was stubborn, true to her nature.

Rather patronizingly, she said, "Bors explained to me the system by which Sarmatian knights found themselves in an outpost such as this: they were brought here under duress, forced to fulfill a fifteen-year tenure as was agreed by their forefathers. It was part of an old agreement of the Sarmatian horsemen from when Rome conquered their territory. They had no freedom for fifteen years, Isolde." She suddenly looked past me, and a smile broke out golden across her face, "_There_ he is, number 11!" Pushing past me with all thoughts of our conversation forgotten, she took the bundle of cloth that held her newest child into her arms from the nursemaid who often cared for the infant while she worked. Spinning slowly, she sang a soft lullaby to the child, adoration plain in her eyes.

Meanwhile, this was the moment of my first revelation.

As if some deity had changed the velocity of time, all the movement surrounding me slowed to a grinding halt as I processed what Vanora had just told me. That Tristan was as much a victim of the Romans as I. That he had borne his fate infinitely much more gracefully than I had mine, with my weeping and snivelling and compulsive blaming. That I had yet again made a fool of myself in front of him, in so many a way. I saw before my eyes the times I had called him traitor, and rewitnessed his response of silence that held so much more than it originally had.

_"Am I to understand that you abandoned your family, Tristan?"_

_"'Abandoned' would be the wrong word."_

_"Then what would be the right word?"_

_"There is none. I was driven away by necessity."_

Where I had been an ignorant fool at thirteen, I understood now at eight-and-twenty: He had left Sarmatia and sought his fortune in hopes of avoiding the call of Rome for his fifteen year tenure. And just when it seemed as though he had successfully avoided their officers, he signed on to deliver a little princess of Macedonia by name of Isolde of Antigonid, and was caught by Roman officials.

I felt ill. My hands, still tightly grasping the hardened clay of the carafe, were cold with sweat.

I dared to wonder for a few moments, _what must he think of me?_ And then promptly disbanded with that thought.

The knights, evidently, chose that exact moment to come to our tavern, full of jovial laughter and playful deadliness. Within seconds, my eyes met Tristan's despite the ropes of his hair, and with dead certainty I put down my carafe to stride towards him. He allowed me to grip his arm, though I'm sure it could have done nothing, his eyes following my every movement, not giving greeting, only watching, observing. I wondered to myself if he had this same calm and cold glint to his eyes when in battle, cutting down his enemies. I spoke, "I must speak with you, Tristan," and he inclined his head in response. He motioned slightly with his free arm and I released his other, walking out of the bar-space with nothing but the feather-light, expert touch of his hand at the small of my back to tell me he was following.

I turned back to him after a short distance, my words forming a large bundle in my throat. He kept watching me silently with the same look, one hand falling naturally and lightly to the hilt of the dagger at his belt.

"Tristan, I…" My cheeks burned with a shameful flush; I was in such disbelief at my incredible folly. "I…"

He cocked an eyebrow visibly, completely at ease, and with a practised spontaneity, a large hawk flew in a graceful arc from a point in the sky to land on his shoulder. He acknowledged the hawk with a glance and a slow smile like he would a friend, and I treated this all as normal, having seen this hawk upon his shoulder several times before.

"I would offer you an apology." I said finally, and he still bore the same countenance. His lack of response frustrated me, and he could probably tell from my own expression. And so, he prompted, "For?"

"For calling you a traitor." And again, even softer, "For every time I have called you a traitor." When he said nothing, but did regard me with a slightly different glint to his eyes and a shifted stance, I added, "I have come to understand the nature of your allegiance to Rome. I'm sorry for judging you. I was a fool."

I waited for his answer, swearing to myself not to speak again until he responded.

He did, after a few moments, shrugging very slightly, "Again, you have not changed, Princess. Still you treat even an apology as some kind of ceremony."

My cheeks burned, and I was further annoyed by his lack of address to the actual issue at hand. I eventually only said, "Don't call me by that title, please."

Tristan shifted his weight again, turning his head to regard the bird that had moved from his shoulder to his forearm. He finally spoke firmly, but softly. "Understand this, Isolde," and he caught my eyes with a sure and steady glance. "I hold no allegiance to any land or person save that which I grant my respect to. Before, I fought for Arthur. Now, I fight for Britain. It is a worthy enough cause, for now."

He whispered something to the hawk, some words of finality, because the bird took again to the skies with the glorious spread of her wings and a push of his arm. He stood straight again, nodded to me and then motioned with his arm back to the tavern: we were finished with our discussion. So again there was silence between us, and there was nothing but empty space and the light and confident touch of his hand on my lower back as he led me back to work.

* * *

Well?


	7. VI

**Pax Romana – 6**

_Disclaimer: See previous chapters; I don't like being redundant.  
__Notes: Well, now the real process is underway – that is, that of hooking the TristanIsolde pair up while still maintaining character. Please let me know how I'm doing as I go along; I'm deathly afraid of losing my sense of character for any of the movie knights. Sorry about how long it's taken to update; if I had lost interest, I'd have posted a note. For better or for worse, I haven't lost interest, but I simply don't have a large amount of time to spend on writing. However, I have been inspired again, so you can expect chanpters to come along with great frequency that this particular one. Sorry for the wait everyone!_

* * *

A great many changes occurred in the short days that followed. It seemed as though Tristan, ever the silent and powerful storm, had cut his way back into my life and turned everything upon its head. I was resentful, at first, because so many factors were beyond my control. Understand: when you have lived your life for fifteen years in solitude and without trust, the _idea_ of surrendering the details of your life to somebody else is a horrifying prospect. Of course, I'll admit rather begrudgingly that there is inevitably no other person who would be better qualified to attend to those details than Tristan.

That very night, he made simple introductions between the rest of the knights and myself. Even at the tavern tables, they were together like a well-greased system, forever playing and catering to each other's strengths and weaknesses, forming a cohesive whole. I was correct in believing that Tristan would try to keep me segregated from his fellow knights and not distribute the "responsibility". He watched my conversations with the knights with an attentive, appraising eye, the clouds behind his orbs dark and full of mysterious thoughts.

No, he had not changed much himself.

They were a lively enough bunch, however, where he was not: Galahad, with youthful charm and optimism for the fate of the future; Gawain, who based his life's philosophy on living in the present and embracing sensation to the fullest "while his flesh still tasted life," he said; Lancelot, whose stunning good looks and equally stunning cynicism towards everything but drink and women were a heady combination to swallow; Dagonet, with undiscovered grace and honour in his every movement and a quiet, gentle manner that disguised wisdom; and Bors, dear Bors, who was so elated to see Vanora had a friend beyond the castle gossip circles, and who drank until his skin smelled strongly of ale for days after.

I could scarcely imagine them all out in battle, and yet again, I could. There was a distinct sense of jadedness, of severity behind all their movements, a graveness in their hands knowing that those hands had taken the lives of many. They were a living paradox.

And where did Tristan fit into their group, I wondered? Not quiet, but utterly silent, and not strong, but compulsively deadly – his ruthlessness on the battlefield I could easily imagine, even from his gait and speech far from his sword. The darkness in him had grown, like a swirling maelstrom, and if I looked at him too closely I feared sweeping myself up in the waves of blackness and being lost in him forever.

But, for all the wonder and trepidation he instilled in me at every turn of countenance, I could not deny him from my life any longer. If anything, he became the liaison upon which my life and security turned, an axis of strength and covert information. For the first few days after our encounter, our exchanges were short and to the point, without meandering and very haphazardly spread throughout the days. The very nature of our relationship changed, I'd say, a few days later.

He sought me out one fine afternoon, while I worked a slow day shift under the rare sun and clouds that seldom touched this isle. My arms laden with wooden mugs and the last dregs of afternoon pints, I did not pay him much attention as I went about my work – something he was probably thankful for. If anything, Tristan did not enjoy a doting woman.

He called me by name – "Isolde," said he, and asked, "Are you busy?"

It was a menial question, of course, and the very bones of genteel politeness that even Tristan subscribed to, but I snapped back at him anyway out of sheer habit. He brought out the child in me; probably the fault of nostalgia on my part: "What do you think?"

Leaning against an empty table, he regarded me with a glance like cool water, calmly detached. He did not, I add, bother to help me, and so I added, "If you want something, I'd give you my attention a lot faster if you helped me finish my work." From a large barrel of water, I began washing down the used mugs.

He did not move, but smiled – a genuine, small smile of amusement, and my heart panged because it was for me – and answered, "It is your chosen work, so I'll leave you to do it yourself. I don't ask you to kill for me, and you shouldn't do the same."

Happier because of his rare, playful mood, I smiled back, enjoying the vague sense of old camaraderie I once believed we shared, and said, "Just give it a few more days, I think, and you'll be asking far more from me than you deserve."

Smiling that small smile again, Tristan only crossed his arms. "Arthur would like to speak with you," he told me.

I stopped my washing and laid down my hands, my smile perhaps slipping a bit. I did not try to hide it from him; Tristan apparently knew my expressions too well for me to hide my reactions. "Arthur?" I asked unnecessarily. I bit my lower lip very slightly. "Whatever for?"

While Tristan had introduced me to the knights formally, I did not know much of Arthur. He was a kingly man, to be sure, undoubtedly very just and worthy of his new position at the head of this island called Britain. His subjects loved him for his deeds and valour, his bravery and kindness to his kinsmen, and deservedly so. I don't know what it was about him that made me a bit uncomfortable, but for some reason I was. Arthur had always unconsciously held himself apart from his knights; I knew that from my idle observations of the knights before the Saxons attacked. But as king, it seemed as though he was indelibly separated from them…and my only relation to the man was through Tristan.

Or perhaps what made me uncomfortable about him was his goodness. I had lived my life in hiding, stealing through dark streets and bargaining with colourful, dishonest people. It hasn't been an honourable lifestyle, and I'm aware of it. But perhaps I wasn't as aware of it as I have become by exposure to Arthur, this great man who has lived his life selflessly for a cause beyond the horizon. Typical of me, I suppose, that my discomfort with him would be caused through a kind of narcissism.

Tristan, meanwhile, shrugged at my question, idly twirling a dagger from his tunic between his long fingers. He squinted through his dark braids, staring out at the people wandering along the square. He answered eventually, "Something to do with Darius, I'd presume."

My fingers tightened into fists. "Do you think he knows where I am?" I asked.

"No."

Tristan stood straight, the dagger disappearing from his fingers to some pocket on his person before I could blink. He added, "Are you finished? I would like to take you to him now." The sunlight that filtered in through the tavern overhang made his dark hair look burnished.

I put away the wooden cups and dipped my hands into the fresh washing water barrel, rubbing them together vigorously. Untying my hair from its traditional knot, I stepped around the wooden counter to fall in step beside him. "Yes, we can go now. If you would be so kind."

We walked together in easy silence, his eyes always sliding over the surrounding surfaces, looking for God knows what.

* * *

_This time_, I decided_, I will not humiliate myself before Arthur Castus. Not again._

He was alone this time; Guinevere was elsewhere. She was another person I had not seen much of since that first fateful meeting when Tristan shoved me before them. For some reason that escapes me, I felt as though I had something to prove to them—to Arthur—as though to prove I was worthy of his hospitality in his country. I had been squatting in his land unwanted, with all my dangerous history trailing close behind, possibly bringing war upon all he had worked for. It had been a selfish choice, and I wanted to prove myself. I would not act like a child, and I would not let Tristan speak for me.

Apparently, Tristan had decided the same thing, for he stood back, as if guarding the doorway out of the room, allowing me to approach Arthur on my own. It was a different room than the one I had been in before; this was the room that housed the famed Round Table. The king of Britain sat in the closest chair, pouring over maps and parchments.

He glanced over his shoulder, taking in Tristan and I in a single, unreadable glance before he focused his eyes on me and motioning forward. "Isolde. Come here, please, I need to ask you a few questions."

I stepped forward and Arthur pulled out the next chair so I could sit beside him. My eyes fell on the map in front of him; a map of the Roman Empire. Over his shoulder, Arthur nodded at Tristan in acknowledgment, who responded only by leaning comfortably against the wall.

Arthur turned to me, his eyes bright and intent. "I've had Tristan tell me the story of your involvement with Darius." He watched me carefully, before adding, "Is there anything you would like to add that you feel is of note?"

There was something in what he said that rubbed me the wrong way, but in the spirit of my newly found maturity, I decided to keep from commenting on it. Instead I couldn't help but glance reproachfully at Tristan before answering, "I'm sure _Tristan_ did an adequate job of retelling _my_ life's story."

There was a pause, and then Arthur smiled and casually rubbed his jaw in amusement. "He did indeed." He looked down for a moment at the maps, and then looked very directly at me. "Then I'd like to ask— "

"Actually, your highness, there is something Tristan would not know."

Arthur tilted his head very slightly to the left, like an animal's head cocked in thought. He prodded, "What is it?" and then rubbed his jaw again in what seemed to be a habit. "Please, my name is Arthur."

Looking down at my clasped hands and feeling the heat of Tristan's stare upon me more keenly than that of Arthur, I said, "Perhaps it's not so important but…this Roman man, Darius…he knows of my tattoo…"

After I trailed off, Arthur appeared puzzled, and inquired, "What do you mean?"

Rubbing the site of the tattoo on my forearm anxiously, I elaborated, "The only manner in which Darius or his men can recognize me now, after fifteen years' passing, is by the tattoo I bear on my arm. The insignia of my royal house. The Roman saw it when I met him as a child, and every time his officers have almost caught me, it is due to their recognition of the tattoo."

As I spoke, no expression changed in Arthur's face, save for a small wince at my callous use of the words 'the Roman'; words I regretted speaking to his face.

"May I see it?" He asked with evident delicacy.

Even in Tristan's company, who I now believed would not betray me, I was uneasy in granting the king of Britain's request. But grant it I did, tugging up the wool of my sleeve to expose the faint dark lines upon the white of my skin, marking my identity in my flesh so indelibly that I could never escape it.

Arthur stared at my forearm for a moment, and then met my eyes. He nodded, and I—gratefully—pulled my sleeve back down. With another glance at the map, he asked a new question: "Where did his officers find you last?" He pulled the map of the Roman Empire closer to me.

I reached forward and traced my finger lightly over the lettering on the map, "Northern Gallia. Unlike here in Britain, I never stayed in a single place."

His eyes were questioning, and I told the tale of my journeys as quickly as I could.

I moved my finger across the map to rest in Peloponnesus, in Greece. "Tristan's company left me in Sparta, where I remained for several years. I finished my physical and intellectual education there, and then travelled," I traced that path across the map from so long ago, "to Corinth and Athens for some time, before doubling back to Sparta. From thence I took a boat to Alexandria, in Egypt, and joined a caravan through Syria, Mesopotamia and Armenia. The rest of my years have been in crossing Sarmatia; I took the route to avoid the inner Empire." I circled my finger around the Black Sea, "So I travelled through Sarmatia Asiatica into Europea, quickly through Germania. I was last in Gallia, as I said…" I trailed off, but amended, "…before hearing Britain was no longer under Roman occupation. It was an easy voyage from there to this isle, and so here I am."

Arthur sat back in his chair, watching me and what I thought would naturally be very strange thoughts about me. Finally, he glanced at Tristan, who kept his silent vigil at the door still, and then chuckled. "What a pair you two are," he commented, easing forward.

Tristan stared stonily and stoically back.

Now looking back at me, Arthur smiled very openly. It was a smile that pooled warmth into my limbs, and in those moments, I probably felt the most at ease I had in many years. There was a casual acceptance in his smile, as if his hesitations and reservations about me had finally been disparaged. There was approval.

"Well," he said, rolling the map back, "I would have you know that I will be sending a number of men into the north area of Gallia for reconnaissance, and scouting. They will search for information regarding Darius' activities and," he met my eyes warmly, "I will do what's in my power to prevent him from retrieving you." Along with his approval, there was finality in his eyes, "You're safe here, in Britain."

And there are no words I can use to describe how that moment made me feel. Like energy had just been infused in me, like the capacity I had for life that had for fifteen years been ignored by necessity had come back to me. Like I had a new life.

Arthur must have understood that, because he did not wait for me to express my thanks, or give any kind of response at all. He stood, and I stood with him, his arms outstretched to allow me to walk forward first. I took hesitant, shaky steps—steps of an infant, almost—towards the door and Tristan caught my arm firmly, holding my posture straight as by transferring his strength into me by touching.

"Isolde," Arthur said from behind me—I turned back to see him standing still at the table, watching me. Quietly, and seriously, he added, "I am no longer an officer of the Roman Empire, but I would offer you my apologies." His look was honest and sober, and it astonished me. "Your treatment by Rome has been terrible, but I am honoured to be given the chance to redeem your time here in Britain."

This man—this great, kingly man—was going to have me weeping. I nodded to him, very shakily, and turned my body almost into Tristan's, eyes stinging. I was less ashamed of showing weakness and emotion in front of him than in front of Arthur—after all, I had humiliated myself at Tristan's expense too many times before. He led me out of the room silently—for which I was grateful, because I don't know what I would have done if he had spoken.

In that silence, he led me through the blindness of my almost-tears to my chambers, opening the heavy door and naturally scanning the room for danger before allowing me to walk in. Again, he stood between the door and myself, and because I did not want to meet his eyes until I was fully composed, I looked around the room for something to focus on.

Noticing a large foreign wooden box on my bed, I walked over to it and picked it up, weighing it in my hands and briefly wondering where it had come from. A stupid thought, honestly, because who else could it have come from but—

"Tristan, what is this?"

His dark eyes watched me closely as he shifted his stance and inclined his shaggy head very slightly. "Open it."

Adequately distracted, I inelegantly scrubbed my hand over my eyes to completely clear them of any tears, before finding the catch of the box and opening it carefully, unsure of what exactly to expect.

Inside, I found a pair of tridents, not at all glittering and shining like those that had been given to me by my uncle. These were harsh and grey, with a matte gleam to them that suggested violence as opposed to ceremony. The styling was simple, and I picked one up in my free hand, weighing it and testing how it cut through the air.

I was delighted.

I looked back at Tristan in question, and he said, "Difficult to find, as they're such archaic weapons, but a trader from the Asia Minor gave me a good price. They are actual weaponry, as opposed to the wall ornaments you owned as a child."

Smiling, I retorted quietly, "I'm surprised. It seems unlike you to give gifts."

His eyes narrowed, and he answered easily, "You're right. They are no gift. It's a sad truth that you are more useless as a fighter than you were fifteen years ago. Even now Britain is a dangerous land. You're my ward, so I will teach you to use them properly."

_Oh, the possibilities_.

"Your ward? I'm a grown woman, Tristan." I smiled.

The small, arrogant smirk that decorated his face infuriated me. "A grown defenceless woman. And there is nothing recommending about a useless woman." His eyes scanned the room again restlessly, and he turned to walk to the door. He stopped only briefly, his hand resting on the wood, and said, "I will see you again tomorrow for your first lesson, and every day after that." Tristan turned, his eyes catching mine very quickly, and his smiled—a true smile. "Or perhaps tonight. Galahad, you know, has a tendency of taking all the knights to your tavern along with him."

He was gone before I thought to answer, but he left a very tangible presence in the room, and my thoughts were with him for hours long afterwards.

* * *

Well? 


	8. VII

**Pax Romana – 7**

_Disclaimer: See previous chapters; I don't like being redundant._

_Notes: Thanks to all for the support on this rather slowly progressing story…I'm glad the narrative tone has been so well accepted because I initially thought it might be a little too strident and personality-based…but I really enjoy writing in Isolde's tone now, so it's too late for changes. I hope that this chapter is up to par. Please do review if you've got any comments. Also, in response to the comment about the historical accuracy of the title: Pax Romana was the period of social and economical peace purposefully brought about BY Augustus AFTER he was established as princeps…Pax Romana also provided an ideal setting for Christianity to spread, so it was indeed in the Imperial era of Rome._

* * *

Lessons, he said. Tomorrow, he said.

I laughed to myself the following morning as I went about my work in the early hours, washing and cleaning and filling and readying. Tristan showed some rare idealism in both himself and in me by showing his assurance in our having a "lesson" in weaponry sometime today. Despite my _highly_ diminished importance in the social hierarchy of the fortress, and in all of Britain, I still held a job that kept me working my fingers to the bone for most of the daylight hours, and almost all of the night time ones. I was proud of myself for being able to maintain a good economic standing, just as I had been taught—in _theory_—by my masters of tutelage in Macedonia and later on in Sparta. I was proud of the belongings I owned because of how hard I worked in order to acquire them. I believed my life to be a pure one, full of hard work and meaning…if all of it spent in hiding.

Of course, the downside of hard work meant that I had precious few hours to myself that were not spent abed, eating or at the market. Beforehand, this had not been of particular consequence because there were even fewer people I had to spend those hours with—this was a truth that had not bothered me. It seemed that Tristan's advent in my life had punched a glaring hole into my waking hours with demands that I spend _time_ with him, lessons of war or otherwise.

Chuckling further to myself, I mused that I had never imagined Tristan to be such a _social creature_.

But no matter. Social creature or not, Tristan was first and foremost a knight of Arthur's table…whatever that entailed. I honestly knew very little of what being a knight of Britain entailed now that they were no longer employed coerced by Rome. For the smallish amount of time I had lived in the fortress before Tristan discovered my presence, I would only see the knights ride in and out of the outer walls from afar, undoubtedly on some prestigious and illustrious mission befitting their rank and history. The stories told of their values and merits and quests—even under Roman occupation—were the stuff of legends. Anyway, the point I tried to make to myself was that not only was _I_ an extremely busy working woman, but Tristan was also a knight, busy with training and missions and…whatever else it seemed the knights did, aside from inebriating themselves at my tavern.

Neither of us had _time_ for lessons. And one of us—being I—had no particular wont for lessons, either. What use had I for weaponry and tactics? Tristan's gift of tridents had struck a chord within me for its thoughtfulness, because it represented (to me, at the very least) our past together. It had required memory on _his_ part to decide on such a gift. And surely that was his purpose in gifting me with the tridents, right? To strike a chord within me, to render me speechless in what I now think of as a womanly oversensitivity to kindness?

Then again, this being Tristan, perhaps he had no ulterior _emotional_ motive to his gift. Maybe he _had_ given the weapons to me for the sole purpose of teaching me weaponry. If that was the truth, what was I going to make of it?

Anyway, my childish infatuation with self-defence and attacks had died as I had grown. Out of necessity, I knew enough manoeuvres to keep myself out of trouble, but there had come a time when I had been forced to accept that war was a man's world, at the present. Only a small part of me had admired Guinevere for her role in the battle of Badon Hill, of which I have heard many tales. From what I understand, her role also almost cost the knights the life of Lancelot. The weaponry of these times was simply not refined enough for a woman to properly wield it: the use of male, brute strength was still prevalent over all other factors in battle.

"And what are you mulling over that keeps you so silent this morning, Isolde?"

Vanora's cheerful voice surprised me right out of my thoughts. It was not an unwanted distraction. I was thinking myself into oblivion. And anyway, if there were any voice that I would want to disturb me, it would be Vanora's, because she is gifted with a sweet speaking voice and a beautiful singing one. So I smiled at her and I began to lay out the wooden chairs around the tables from their keeping-place in storage. "'Tis nothing, Vanora. Just wonderings."

She accepted that well enough, for although she is an inquisitive, curious woman, she is not insensitive to my moods and does not pry into my head. On most matters. Coming over to aid me with the heavy chairs, she started easily, "Well I heard that you had another audience with Arthur and Tristan yesterday afternoon."

I caught her eye. "Yes, I did." Sometimes I wondered just _how_ word got around to her. Did the guards really have so little to talk about amongst themselves that they had to resort to telling the townspeople the comings and goings within the castle?

"And how did it go, then?" She prompted, after I said little more.

Stopping my motions briefly, I answered seriously, "Very well. Almost too well to be believed. Arthur is a kingly man, and I respect him deeply." It was the truth. I was proud to be under his protection.

Vanora nodded, continuing on to the next table. "You'd be one of many," she affirmed, "all the people here are of one mind about their king. He is a great man."

"Indeed." There was little more to be said on the matter, for there was no debate on Arthur's integrity.

A new eagerness tinted her voice, giving her anticipation away, "But what of Tristan? Do tell me you've made some progress into _him_." A devilish glint entered into her eyes, and I looked away, trying not to smile, so that the same glint would not be passed into _mine_.

Testily, I replied, "I don't know what you mean exactly, _Vanora_."

She didn't catch the hint, placing her hands on her hips to show her steadfast spirit. "Yes, you do—why else are you blushing, then?" Vanora motioned her hand in the general direction of my head.

"I'm not!"

With a sneaky grin, she uncharacteristically conceded. "Let's not argue." I was suspicious—rightly so—of her words. Then she surprised me, as she surely intended, dropping her next words casually, "He came by this morning, before you arrived. Crack of dawn, godforsaken time that it is. Asked for you."

"He asked for me!"

Vanora looked up in triumph, grabbing my arms in her eagerness. "So there _is_ some progress!" A smile alighted on her pretty face.

I attempted to pull away lightly, avoiding her questions and trying to find answers. "Vanora—don't be ridiculous! He asked for me earlier? Did he want me to come find him?"

Letting go of me, she walked away towards the bar, hips swinging lightly and her tone casual. "Well how should I know? He barely speaks on _ordinary_ matters like time and place and meetings and whatnot. I told him you hadn't arrived yet, he gave me his greetings, and then he left."

I stopped, and deliberated over both her words and Tristan's actions, wondering what I was to do. What I supposed to come find him after learning of his coming to the tavern in the morning? Or was I supposed to wait for him to collect me?

That last thought irked me so very much in its profound nature of stereotypical female uselessness that I decided I would not take that recourse. Yelling to Vanora, who nodded knowingly, that I would return shortly, I left the tavern area for the castle, wondering where exactly I should search for my errant knight first.

_My errant knight_.

I quashed that last thought mercilessly. Busy working woman, indeed.

* * *

"You cannot honestly be serious about this."

Barely glancing at my arrival on the field, Tristan drew another wooden, well-hewn arrow from the quiver slung loosely across his back. Taking his time, he fitted the arrow to the great bow held fast in his left hand, the arrowhead resting upon his fingers for aim and direction. With the string of the bow pulled back and taut with his right hand meeting his right shoulder, the fingers grasping the feathered end of the arrow against the string, he finally answered needlessly, "If I said it, then I am probably serious about it." He held his position with the powerful bow pulled abreast for many seconds, leaving me in wonder at his strength—for the bow did not shake with his exertion. Tristan then added, "Serious about what, exactly?"

I tried not to look as if I were some petulant woman scolding him, completely out of place in my long dress in the centre of a field used for archery practice. I must have looked a ridiculous sight, though it was only he and I there to behold it. Crossing my arms against the wind on the open plain, I said, "about these lessons of yours. Because you certainly don't have excessive time to dedicate to such a task, and in all honesty, neither do I. It's a valiant idea, to be sure, and take note of my appreciation for your concern with me, but surely you aren't serious."

From behind the dark ropes of his braids, I watched his eyes flick briefly from their fixture on his target—hundreds of paces ahead—up into the sky and back down again. When I looked up to see what was there, I laid eyes on his hawk again, making lazy circles above us. There was nothing but a faint _snickt _sound as he released his arrow with a single fluid motion.

From where I stood, I could not make out how closely he had hit the target.

Tristan turned back to me, saying, "You don't have time to dedicate to your own survival? You should re-evaluate your priorities." I did not even have to look upon his face to know there was a smirk tugging at his lips. That smirk of his left a distinctive tone in his voice. At some other time I might have been amused at our paltry banter, but I greatly disliked being given orders and coddled like a needy child. Perhaps my younger self might have enjoyed the attention the grizzled knight was finally allotting me, but at the present it felt like condescension.

Turning my head away from where he stood, I stared far out to the tree line. A bit testily, I responded, "Why don't you just let me handle my own survival, all right? I cannot have faired too badly if I remained alive long enough to look upon your eccentric person again." I wasn't teasing him. Tension often led me to lash out at the people around me.

To no surprise, he wasn't fazed at all by my change in humour. In fact, Tristan said just as sharply, "Your survival thus far has consisted of evading capture and fleeing to a new locale, am I right?" I refused to allow myself to feel shame at the question. He continued, "Since you are to be staying in Britain, fleeing is no longer necessary and hence the need for experience with weaponry." The smirk returned in full force, very slightly baiting me: "Your younger self would have been completely disgusted with the idea of running from the enemy."

I wondered why he was bothering with this farce of convincing me. Truly, he could have ordered me to do any task he wanted and I'd have complied, so grateful was I of his acceptance of my presence in Britain. If not for his good word and protection, I'd very possibly be enduring the unpleasant task of finding a new home…again.

Nonetheless, a steadfast old trait of mine—stubbornness—kept me petulantly arguing my point. A sense of sadness began to pervade me, down to the very marrow of my bones, as always happens when I truly contemplate this miserable situation of mine. I said, "Time has dealt me a few too many painful incidents. The first and most effective way of keeping alive is to run."

Something hardened in his face and the change struck me strongly; I knew that my words were disappointing him. I also knew that I had changed quite a lot since my impetuous youth, and perhaps that change in me was not to his liking. For whatever reason, I cursed in my mind: cursed myself for resorting to cowardice to keep alive, and cursed the Roman for giving me cause to resort to it. It really was ridiculous for me to be cursing myself thus, as any normal person would have done exactly the same as I. However, until the darkly liquid and unmerciful eyes of Tristan, my actions were nothing but cowardice.

Aside, I wondered if I, a friend, could feel so moved and despaired under Tristan's gaze, how must his enemies feel when they face him? It was not a soothing thought.

He spoke strongly, facing me. "Woman, listen to me. Eventually someone will come for you even in Britain. Whether it be in the form of an army or an assassin isn't relevant. What _is_ relevant is your staying alive—" My heart quickened at this, until I scoffed inwardly and quashed it mercilessly, "—as all the work I've put into you as a youth _and_ as a knight will be for naught if you are caught. And I don't like having my time wasted."

Half in disbelief and half in offence, I watched him in silence as he shot another arrow much the same way as he had before. I still could not discern the target very well. He spoke about my life as if it were some _project_ of his, barely within his attention span. I considered whether or not he was merely trying to fire me up again, or if he truly felt that way. I much preferred to believe the former.

I suddenly felt very tired, almost beaten by him. That sadness that lived within me and surfaced from time to time stirred, and I was overcome by a great need to be left alone. Softly, I said, "As you say, Tristan."

He caught my shift in spirits immediately. I knew because his eyes sharpened and looked at me differently from under his hair. I was filled with a sense of embarrassment yet again, imagining how weak he must believe me to be, and unconsciously turned away as if it would hide my coloured face.

Putting down his great bow, one large hand lightly touched my arm to turn me back to face him—so lightly and expertly done I barely realized I had moved under his direction. The fingers of his other hand came to my jaw to make me meet his gaze, his grip firm compared to the hand resting on my arm. I felt entirely detached, as if I were watching this scene unfold from afar on the ramparts. Very quietly, he said, "We won't be starting today." His eyes flickered over my shoulder in the direction of the square—and the tavern. "Vanora needs you to count the coins from last night." Idly, I wondered how he knew.

Understanding that I was dismissed, I moved to leave his grasp, but Tristan would not allow it. He watched me in silence, and I waited for whatever it was that he had to say. Finally, two of his fingers at my jaw moved to rest lightly on my cheek for a single moment. "You've grown to be very beautiful, Isolde," he said. Then, just as softly, he let me go and turned back to his bow.

It was strange, for a man known so little for his words, to always know the words I needed to hear.

* * *

Well? 


End file.
